Letting Go Is an Acquired Taste

by Christina Hart

The art of letting go and moving on is an acquired taste one only knows after they know nothing else for long enough. The first step is forced, and every step after is felt.

I traced a circle around the beauty mark on my thigh, marking what was still mine. Some things they can never take with them, so if they want to leave, let them.

For years I had been holding on to men who no longer wished to hold on to me. So I listened. I let them go.

One can only dig their own grave for so long. Eventually you hit bottom and decide whether you want to get in now or later.

To sum it all up, he taught me two things: I am still not good enough, and I am too good for him.

I am tired of feeling the burn. And I am beginning to learn that sometimes it is better to walk away.

One day I will shatter hearts with all the stones they threw at me.

I promised myself I’d never let myself fall for green eyes and beautiful lies and words that felt like knives ever again.

My body has become a tomb and I am learning how to unfeel all the hands that touched me that were not yours.

It’s so much easier being alone. I know the ways I can hurt me.

There are only so many ways you can tell someone you love them until it finally sinks in that they just don’t want to hear it.

You are either mad or you are not. Love only infuriates it.

I light torches at the feet of men who say they want me. They all sound the same at this point and I can no longer distinguish the truth from the lies.

This was nothing short of a train wreck that ran off the tracks two stops away from nowhere. I just got off before you did.

Life is little more than a heartbeat away from getting things right the first time and a lifetime spent wishing that we had.

I wanted the butterflies. I wanted the blues. I wanted. I wanted. I wanted. I received. And I am still recovering.

Promises always tasted sweeter coming from the lips of someone who would never keep them.

Your words. You said so many words and I am trying to remember them all and I am trying not to forget them all and I am trying to keep them locked in this place in my chest that used to keep my heart warm.

and you would wrestle me on the bed and make me shut up and you would laugh and I would laugh.

I am trying to forget November.

I am trying to forget. But I will always remember you.

And I refuse to see this romance as tragic because if there is hope like the hope that was promised to me in your eyes then I believe I will find you again. If not in you, then in someone who will take that chance and grab it by the balls